The Nookie Cookie
by ZizzyO
Summary: It's been a Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day and just when Sam's day gets marginally better... The nookie cookie crumbles.
1. Chapter 1

Inspired by a peanut butter cookie, a kid's book, and chapter 5 of Bring It On Home by thecouchcarrot. I highly recommended it! It's a very amusing and deep Dean and Castiel AU.

Enjoy! :)

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Hello, my name is Samuel Winchester and I have been cookie-free for fifteen days.

By the way, I'm moving to Australia.

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To call it a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day… was a bit of an understatement.

Sam's no stranger to bad days or horrible days or no good days or even the combination of all three. After all, he survived the unluckiest day of anyone's life. (He was NEVER touching another rabbit's foot.)

He had a feeling it was going to be a very bad day, when his wallet disappeared. It wasn't hiding in his pockets or Dean's pockets or under the beds or in the Impala. Wasn't at the front desk or lurking in the parking lot or in the greasy spoon they ate at last night.

He KNEW it was a no-good day when he had to play hide-and-go-seek with a murderous ghost. Dean fumbled around with the _stupid _lighter that refused to light until after Sam was thrown at three different walls and stabbed in the leg by his own knife. The ghost _finally_ went out in a blaze of freakin' flamed glory, just in time for the home owner to walk in the door. Of course, she was the hottest babe this side of the Mississippi. And of course, she completely ignored him, in favor of plastering her jailbait body all over Dean.

Dean and the car keys and the overly-thankful single lady disappeared upstairs before Sam could protest. His wallet was who-knows-where, so he couldn't storm off without walking two miles on an injured leg or cock-blocking his brother who _apparently_ was already '_fucking her brains out.'_ Plus, they're upstairs and Sam really _really _doesn't want walk up any stairs. He doesn't even want to move, much less interrupt to drag his _jerk_ of a brother off. So, Sam waits downstairs, with the TV cranked up to max volume, and raids the under stocked medicine cabinet. His leg wound is disinfected and wrapped before the first commercial break. He convinces himself that the little bit noise that not even the TV drowns out is just the attic fan.

In the car, Dean insists on Metallica… again. The no-good day morphs into a horrible day as a migraine forms and his brain rattles around to the loud beat. Dean just turns up the volume when he points out that they listened to the same tape yesterday and the day before yesterday and the _entire week_ before then. It wasn't a bluff, when he says, "I'm going to hurl all over your dashboard, if you don't shut it off." It's not his fault that Dean disbelieves him. Just one of those days. And to top it all off…now he's hungry.

When they arrive at the sleazy motel, Dean's still angry about his baby and Sam can still smell puke under the fumes of an entire Lysol can. Dean ditches him at the hotel with a bag of cheap drive-through and roars off with an offended squeal of tires.

It's officially a terrible day when Sam opens the greasy bag of to-go food and it's the wrong order. He doesn't know exactly what the jiggling pile of purplish brownish goo is, but he knows that's there no way in hell he's eating it. He's whining, but it doesn't matter—no one can hear him. His forehead thuds against the flimsy motel desk.

The desk breaks. He doesn't even attempt to fix it.

Screw it.

Screw it all to hell and back.

The silver lining to this Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad day is the HUGE cookie he finds wrapped up in a napkin, hiding in the bottom of the bag. A peanut butter cookie. He holds it with both hands because it's that enormous. Sweet, and moist and he pretends that his Mother lived long enough to bake him homemade cookies and this is what they tasted like.

He takes another bite of the cookie and remembers a similar taste on an obnoxious mouth. Remembers a man almost half his size grinding against his leg. Pinning him against a poster for Herpex and sucking and touching and nibbling until he finally caves in and starts kissing back. Then, Gabriel is the one slammed against the _stupid_ genital herpes sign as Sam thrusts against him and yanks his head back grazing down his throat with his teeth… and then Sam stops remembering and starts fantasizing.

Fantasizing about what would happen if the man was here, right now. Wearing that _stupid_ pornstache and making silly eyebrow waggles in his directions and he would say _Gigantor, miss me big boy? _And Sam would tell him to _Shut the fuck up and start fucking_ and then push him into the bedspread and suck the sugary sweetness right out of his skin till he was trembling and moooaaaning and wrapping his hands around Sam's cock _stroking_ until all Sam can hear was the _sound of slick flesh hitting flesh _and _licking_ like it was one of his _damn lolipops _and Sam _tearing_ clothes off that _annoying jerk_ of an angel and he _likes it_ and Sam's _shredding_ every last inch of fabric, then _slams _Gabriel to his knees, buries his hands in the wild hair _twisting pulling thrusting _into the hot wet mouth—

Then, Sam realizes that his hand is in his pants and he's actually masturbating to a damn cookie.

Sam stops.

Sam crushes the cookie to crumbs in his hand.

What.

The Hell.


	2. Chapter 2

Gabriel's definition of strength differs from most folks. It isn't the ability to kill Lucifer before his brother shiskabobs him or even to carry the world on his shoulders like Ol' Atlas. Strength is the capacity to break a Hershey bar into four pieces with your bare hands—and then eat just one of the pieces. When it comes to Sam, Gabriel is pitiful weak.

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===================Nookie Cookie=============================

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Sam doesn't understand the severe climate change. The weather called for a cool breezy day with a high of 73, not 1000+. He knows about global warming. Did a paper on it and urban heat and the debate over whether or not it's really happening. He could tell you all about different interpretations of data and that an urban heat island can be 200 higher than the surrounding area. It doesn't stop the sweat from soaking the back of his shirt and leaving sticky clumps of hair against his skin.

He shifts and slides down the booth until he's directly under the vent. The frigid blast of cold air doesn't make a difference. So, he jams his soda glass against his brow, rolling the condensation and chilled cup against the skin. He's searching for a Pompeii curse or a fire spirit when he feels fingers twisting in his hair. He jumps away, knocking over the table, spilling his glass and busting a few condiments. There's nothing there. It's too sweltering to be a ghost and there aren't any odd reflections. Everyone else is reasonably bundled in jeans and light-weight jackets.

No one else seems affected by the sweltering heat. Something's targeting him. He scans the dinner. All conversation has ground to a halt. He jumps when the invisible fingers yank at his head, twisting a hunk of the hair and tugging intently. He picks the table back up, dodges the waitresses' concerns. Grabbing his laptop, he leaves a twenty for the drink and mess. He runs back to the hotel room.

He slams the thermostat to the lowest setting. His shirt's discarded and he's down to just his boxers. Five seconds away from a cold shower, when he starts hearing noises. They sound like moans and dirty whispers.

He doesn't relax, even after the motel room is dead bolted and blockaded with the flimsy dresser. He's sitting on the bed, with Ruby's knife, a holy water bottle, a shotgun of salt rounds, and a half-emptied industrial sized tub of rock salt. The other half of the salt tub is poured in a circle around the bed. It's not paranoia, just caution. He's started drawing anti-angel sigils with his blood when the feeling returns.

When the invisible fingers yank his head back, he lashes out at the air with his knife. It's ineffective. The fingers drag him backwards down to the bed. Then, they multiply. His shoes are yanked off and his socks fly off into a corner. Fingers scrape up and down the bottom of his soles, teasing and tickling. He kicks out, but his legs and arms are pinned down by warm fleshy weight. He's sweating bullets, his skin flushed and over-sensitive. Hands splay against his chest, curving down his body. More tease through his hair, petting and yanking. Some of them curl around his hips, kneading and grabbing. Others trace up and down his neck. A particular bold pair circle around his groin before one solid stroke makes him moan.

Then, there's a Trickster perched on his chest, winking and grinning. The hands and overwhelming heat choke out like Christmas lights during a blackout. Gabriel grabs the bewildered hunter's chin. There's the faintest brush of lips against his mouth; A teasing torment after the overwhelming onslaught. Sam manages to get a finger on the shotgun. He twists around, braces the gun against his shoulder and shoots the obnoxious angel at point-blank range... in the face.

"Tsk, tsk." A finger waggles disapprovingly at him. Gabriel's kissing him again, harder this time—knocking his head against the bed and forcing his tongue past Sam's lips. Gabriel rocks forward dragging his legs against Sam's crotch. "I enjoyed your daydream, Sam."

SNAP.

Gabriel's gone. Sam's heart is racing and his breath comes is rushed spurts, stunned by the sudden onslaught. His teeth clink against something metallic and smooth. He spits a bullet into his shaking hand. It's still warm.

There's a peanut butter cookie on the bedside table and a very confused hunter on the bed.

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*Definition of strength from quote by Judith Viorst.


End file.
